


Negative Space

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Ouroboros Mix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>But there are these angles and flat planes on Roxy's body that disturb Jane. They speak of the things that have always been missing from Roxy's life until now, and Jane finds herself wanting to fill them for her.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negative Space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bramblePatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramblePatch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Shapes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/499552) by [bramblePatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bramblePatch/pseuds/bramblePatch). 



There is nothing Roxy can hide from anyone looking at her. She has a face so earnest and expressive, that every flicker of emotion might as well be a neon sign, flashing bright enough to be seen for miles. Everything she experiences surges through her body, informs her every stance and gesture. There is not an ounce of pretense in Roxy, no room for it anywhere. It's one of the things that endears her to Jane so much.

But there are these angles and flat planes on Roxy's body that disturb Jane. They speak of the things that have always been missing from Roxy's life until now, and Jane finds herself wanting to fill them for her. Nobody has ever taken care of Roxy as properly as they should have, not even Roxy herself.

Whether it is possible to make up for lost time or not, Jane is still intent on making the effort. She has so much time and care and love and affection that she wants to pour into Roxy, for as long as it takes to fill the empty places.

 

 

If there is a word for vicariously experiencing joy through someone else—perhaps something German with too many consonants—Jane thinks that it would apply every time she sees Roxy have her first bite of something.

She's always strangely solemn when she is trying a new dish (and she is always trying a new dish; there are so many things she has never tasted, so many delicious things she has never even seen except in pictures and movies). She starts by inhaling deeply and taking in the smell of it. Then, engaging in a time-honored fundamental of scientists everywhere, she pokes at it, whether with a spoon or fork or finger. She pushes down on it, tests its solidity, its density, its shape. She carves out bite-sized morsels like she's conducting a serious experiment, performing a vivisection on an interesting specimen.

When she finally tastes it—and Roxy always does, Jane learns that Roxy never refuses a first taste of _anything_ —it's with a look of complete concentration on her face. Jane can always identify the exact moment when Roxy perceives the flavor of something, because her face changes dramatically. She can tell when Roxy is intrigued or surprised by the taste: wonder blooms on her face, starting around her eyes and bleeding down her spine. She can tell when Roxy thinks something is too spicy (she squints her eyes) or too salty (her lips purse) or too sweet (her eyebrows rise). She can tell what Roxy thinks about its texture or its temperature just by the tilt of her head.

Jane wants to be there to see Roxy experience everything for the first time. She wants to drink it all in, feel it with her. Jane wants--

 

 

Jane wants to touch Roxy because Roxy is starving for more than just food.

She wants to be the first one to run her fingers through Roxy's hair, and the first to press her palms against Roxy's face and kiss her nose. She wants to run her knuckles down her knobby spine and tickle the inside of her knee.

Jane wants to do all the things that Roxy has needed for a very long time.

 

 

Sometimes Jane is afraid to touch Roxy. Some days, it seems as if there is too little of her to account for the depth and breadth of her personality, of the intangible components that make up Roxy Lalonde, the girl behind the pink text.

It snags at Jane's innate sense of fairness that bad things should happen to good people—that anything bad at all should happen to Roxy in particular. Jane doesn't know how to fight against it, how to protect Roxy from the deprivations that have left their mark on her.

Even when Jane promises to herself that she will protect and take care of Roxy from this point on, she still fails at it. When Roxy is miserable and crying and asking for just a drink, Jane can do nothing but rub her back and whisper comforting nonsense. When the worst of it finally passes, Jane is relieved; not only for Roxy's sake, but for her own. She never wants to feel as helpless as she did in those moments.

 

 

It's cold on LOCAH, and dark and lonely.

But when Jane and Roxy curl underneath a blanket together, it's not so cold anymore; it's no longer lonely.

They fit together imperfectly—they elbow each other and apologize and giggle and Jane lets out a playful shriek when Roxy's freezing feet find her calves. They poke and tickle and cuddle until they tire themselves out, and then they just stretch themselves out to sleep, limbs flopping together in a tangles mess. Sometimes sleep eludes them, and they spend hours having inane, half-coherent conversations in low voices, drifting in and out. There's nothing properly resembling night or day on either of their planets. It's easy to lose track of entire days. But when the fancy strikes them, Jane and Roxy declare it night by mutual agreement, because nights are necessary for sleepovers. Calendars and clocks are brushed aside through mere suspension of disbelief.

It's on these occasions when Jane can feel every bump of Roxy's bones and every hard line of her body. When they're pressed together like this, she doesn't move for fear that Roxy is really made of paper and she'll tear too easily. But it's an absurd thought, Jane tells herself. Paper doesn't have a heartbeat and paper doesn't breathe. It doesn't giggle or talk or kiss.

Oh, it certainly doesn't _kiss_. Roxy is good at reminding Jane that.

 

 

It's in Roxy's fingers that Jane notices the difference.

They're long and thin, but for a while now, it seems like the knuckles don't stand out as much as when she first saw them. When Jane looks at Roxy's cheekbones, they maybe don't jut out as sharply as before.

When she trails a finger over Roxy's cheek, and Roxy looks at her and quirks an eyebrow (“What?” Roxy says, amused and fond on the surface, but with a twinge of apprehension), Jane has to smile (“Nothing,” Jane replies, and kisses Roxy).

It's going to be fine, Jane decides in moments like these. Roxy will be fine, and everything else will follow.


End file.
